


Getting By

by TheNightComesDown



Series: Dearest Deacon [3]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: A Day At The Races, Anxiety, Drugs, F/M, Fluff, Marriage, Mild Language, Queen tour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 10:52:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17527394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNightComesDown/pseuds/TheNightComesDown
Summary: While John is on tour, you are home alone with a newborn baby.





	Getting By

**Author's Note:**

> Warning to readers: There is mention of drug and alcohol use and abuse in this story. Please be aware of this, but know that there are no explicit descriptions or scenes involving drug use. 
> 
> As well, a character in the story experiences a mild anxiety attack, and is talked through it using a common breathing technique taught to me by my psychologist. I describe the anxiety attack using symptoms and feelings I myself have experienced, and am in no way trying to generalize anxiety or describe anyone else's experience with it. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

In the middle of the night, a bitter cry woke you from a restless sleep. In the bassinet beside your bed, your 3-month old son was wrapped tightly in one of the swaddling blankets you had brought home from the hospital. His eyes were scrunched shut, and his pink, toothless gums were visible as he wailed. With an exhausted sigh, you took him in your arms and rocked him gently.

“There now, Henry, Mummy’s here,” you whispered, lifting your pyjama shirt. Henry’s breath caught in his throat as he latched onto your breast, and after a moment, his cries gave way to tiny grunts as he fed. You glanced at the alarm clock on the bedside table and saw that it was 3:30 AM; John would be in New York City, where it would be 10:30. His show would be over, but he had probably gone out with the boys. Henry was content at your breast, and this might be the only time you had to talk to your husband. Just in case he was in, you dialled the hotel phone number listed on the sheet beside your bed. 

“To what room may I direct your call?” the concierge asked. 

“408, please,” you requested, “Mr. John Deacon.” The concierge coughed as if he had choked on a sip of water. 

“May I ask who’s calling, please?” He cleared his throat, and you gave him a minute before answering. 

“His wife,” you responded, “who has been up all night with a 3-month old baby, and would really appreciate speaking to the father of said baby.” The line went silent for a moment, and you breathed a sigh of relief when the line began to ring. By the fifth ring without an answer, you were ready to hang up. 

“Hello?” slurred a high-pitched voice on the other end. Finally. 

“Roger, it’s Y/N,” you said, rolling your eyes as he giggled drunkenly. “Give the phone to John, please.” The phone cracked against a hard surface, and you heard a shuffling sound in the background. 

“John speaking,” John answered, picking up the receiver. You were thoroughly relieved that he sounded sober. 

“Hello, dear,” you yawned, laying your head against the wall behind you. “It’s me. Just calling to check in, see how things are going.” John pressed the receiver against his chest to muffle the sound in his room. 

“Shut the hell up, will you? My wife’s on the phone,” he snapped. You frowned; it was uncommon for him to raise his voice. 

“John, it’s alright,” you promised him, “I can’t talk long anyways. I just wanted to hear your voice before Henry and I go back to sleep.” 

“He’s awake, is he?” John asked. “Put the phone up to his ear for a moment, love, so he can hear his Papa’s voice.” You did as he asked, and you smiled as your husband cooed and talked in sing-song tones to his son. 

“I love when you do that,” you smiled, pressing the receiver back to your ear. 

“How are you holding up, dear?” John murmured. You heard the click of a door, which dampened the noise of the room he had been in. 

“I’m getting by,” you shrugged. It was barely the truth, but you still felt the need to say it. Henry had been up every hour for nearly three days, and you hadn’t had any help. 

“You sound exhausted, Y/N,” he observed sourly. “This fucking tour—” 

“John,” you scolded. “Stop that. You and I both know how important this is for you and the boys.” He was silent for a moment, but you didn’t ask if he was still on the line; sometimes, he just needed a moment to process. 

“It’s important for the band,” he said finally, “but I don’t know how good it is for us.” A knock reverberated through the bathroom whose door he had slipped the phone cord under. “Sorry, just a minute, love.” 

“Deacy, dear,” a woman’s voice purred, “are you coming back out? Roger’s falling asleep, but we want to have some fun.” Tour life, as you knew, usually involved sex, drugs and who knew what else, but you trusted John more than anything, so you tried not to feel nervous about the woman whose voice you’d heard. 

“Piss off,” John growled. “If you want to fool around, you’ll have to find someone else.” He slammed the door and the room he was in went quiet again. 

“John, is everything alright?” you asked, wondering whether you actually wanted an answer or not. It was probably safest not to ask anything. John sighed deeply. 

“Fred’s done enough coke to fill a bathtub, and Roger’s gone to bed with almost every woman in New York State,” he said wearily. “As great as the adrenaline rush of performing on stage is, I can’t help but think that all the time before and after the shows is going to be the end of us." 

“So it’s only Fred and Roger messing about?” you asked, suddenly nervous. “What have you and Bri been up to?” John was a careful man, but Freddie and Roger were his best friends. They had an influence on him that you couldn’t do anything about from across the ocean. 

“I am getting stoned at the moment,” Brian’s voice called out loudly. “All by my lonesome in a hotel toilet, with only this weed for company…” Brian trailed off. John’s nasal laughter followed. 

“He’ll be fine,” John promised you. “He’s just had a bit of a joint.” You pressed your lips together tightly, unsure of sure how to respond. You felt that marijuana was a better choice than cocaine, but the amount of drugs that ended up on tour made you nervous. 

“John, are you…are you going to be alright?” you inquired, hesitating to ask. “You know I trust you, but you also know that I worry about you. All of you.” John blew out a long breath, and you guessed that he was smoking a cigarette. 

“It’s just one more month, Y/N,” John groaned, “and then I’ll be back home with you and little Henry.” The thought of John coming home in a month was exciting, but when you remembered how long the last week had been, you almost cried. 

“Just a month.” 

“I’ll call my mum and see if she can’t come down and stay a few days,” John suggested. “You sound like you need a long rest.” His tone was sober now, and you felt that he was truly realizing how much work being a single parent for several months was. “You’ve given up your life so that I can do something I love, and I can’t thank you enough for that, darling.” Just then, Henry decided he was done feeding, and he began to wail again, begging to be rocked. 

“John, I’ve got to go,” you squeaked, holding the receiver between your shoulder and your cheek. “Call me when you have a chance in the next few days. I love you. Be safe.” You sat Henry up and patted his back, quickly grabbing a burp cloth to hold beneath his chin. 

“Love you too, dear,” he said, staying on the line until you had hung up. Even if all he could hear was Henry crying, he still felt that if he listened a moment longer, he would feel as if he were home with you. 

* * * 

Later that week, you swaddled Henry up and tucked him into his pram. A walk around outdoors would help you to feel more awake and alive, you thought. The days had been challenging, and the nights overwhelming, to the point where you usually cried before falling asleep – but maybe a bout of exercise would do the trick. As you turned the corner from your drive onto your sidewalk, you noticed several people with cameras loitering down the street, right in your path. 

You picked up your pace, pulling the hood of your coat up as you walked. The air was quite chilly, with the temperature being only a few degrees above zero. Henry was dressed in warm clothes, and had several blankets to cover him; you would only be out a few minutes anyways. And a bit of rain never hurt anyone, you though, looking up at the grey clouds in the sky above you. As you approached the next corner, the people you had seen before jumped into action, snapping photographs as you walked by. 

“Mrs. Deacon!” one man called out, “how are you handling a newborn while your husband is on tour in America?” You pulled your hood forward, blocking your face. 

“Mrs. Deacon,” another photographer asked, “is it true that you are considering a divorce because of your husband’s drinking habits?” The paparazzi crowded around you, angling their cameras toward the pram. You pulled the sun shield down over the open basket in an attempt to keep them from seeing Henry. 

“Y/N, has your relationship with Queen drummer Roger Taylor put a strain on your marriage?” a woman asked, putting a microphone in front of your face. Using your shoulder as a battering ram of sorts, you pushed through the throng of reporters. There had been times where people had asked questions about John’s career, but never had you been harassed like this on the streets, let alone in front of your own home. Seething at the invasion of your privacy, you sped up nearly to the point of jogging down the road, but you continued to hear the patter of eager footsteps behind you. A man stepped out from behind a hedge to the left of your pram and stood directly in your path, bringing you to a sudden halt. 

“Mrs. Deacon,” he said seriously, “could you respond to the allegations of your husband’s affair with a member of Queen’s road crew?” Your face was red, and you felt as though you were about to scream. The man held his tape recorder in your face, and as he clicked the ‘record’ button, you let loose. 

“To answer your questions, sir,” you replied sharply, “I am handling parenthood well, as you can see by my attempt to take my son on a stroll despite being harangued by the media in front of my own bloody home.” Your rage bubbled over as you continued to answer. “My husband’s drinking habits aren’t yours to concern yourself with, and neither are any of my friendships. And finally,” you snapped, slipping a cigarette between your lips, “my husband can sleep with whomever he damn-well pleases, and it will continue to be none of your fucking business. Good day, sir.” As you broke away from the cloud of media trailing behind you, your heart dropped into the bottom of your stomach. 

“Why didn’t I just say ‘no bloody comment’?” you asked yourself with a sigh. 

* * * 

Splashed across the tabloids the following morning were phrases such as: 

“QUEEN’S JOHN DEACON ENGAGED IN AFFAIR: WIFE KNOWS” and 

“ADDICTED TO DRUGS AND BOOZE: QUEEN BEHIND CLOSED DOORS” 

You huffed in annoyance as you glanced at the ridiculous photos on the covers of magazines in the check stand aisle at the grocers. The cashier, who had been serving you and John for several years, barely looked at you as she scanned your groceries. When you climbed into your vehicle after unloading everything into the back seat, you leaned your forehead against the steering wheel, ignoring the blaring of the horn. The remainder of the day was spent nursing Henry, putting the wash through and hanging tiny bodysuits and trousers from the wash line behind the house. As it was nearing suppertime, the phone rang. 

“Hello?” you answered. 

“Darling, it’s John,” came your husband's voice on the other end. “D’you know anything about all this rubbish I’m reading about my ‘drug addiction’ in the tabloids?” His voice was strained, and you let out a deep sigh as you recalled the incident with the press earlier that week. 

“Yes, it’s all rubbish, of course,” you replied. “Stupid press got me riled up while I was trying to take a walk with Henry. I should have just ignored them, but…” You trailed off, unsure of how to explain your actions. John’s breathing was audible through the phone, and you wondered after his long, silent pause whether he was about to yell at you over the phone. 

“Y/N, I think I need to come home,” he said finally. “It’s not right for you to be home alone with Henry. I should never have gone on this tour.” 

“John, what the hell are you talking about?” you gasped, incredulous. “You’ve got less than two weeks of shows left. You can’t just leave the boys!” Henry was fast asleep, tucked snugly in a shallow cardboard box you’d found earlier that morning. 

“No, really,” John insisted. “I’ve booked a flight, and we’ve got another bassist lined up to play the last few shows. I’ll be home by the end of the day tomorrow.” As you tried to wrap your head around this, you sat down on the floor and began to weep. John could hear your ragged breaths between sobs. 

“John,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady, “if you come home now, then I’ll have stayed home and dealt with Henry by myself for nothing.” Hot tears dripped onto your shirt, leaving dark splotches on the fabric. The more you thought about John flying home, the more worked up you became. You began to gasp for air, taking shallow, fast breaths. A dull ache began in your head, and the room started to spin as you hyperventilated. There was nothing you could do to fix the situation; it was out of your control. 

“I don’t know…something’s wrong, she’s breathing really fast,” you heard John shout. “Darling, are you still there?” You tried to speak, but you were breathing too quickly to get many words out. In your chest, you felt your heart flutter away beneath your ribs. 

_Am I having a heart attack? _you wondered.__

__“Y/N, I need you to listen to me,” soothed a voice on John’s end. “Y/N, just say one word, ‘yes’, so I know you’re there.”_ _

__“Brian?” you choked, leaning forward. One hand was on the floor, supporting you as you breathed._ _

__“Yes, it’s Brian,” he replied. “I think you’re having what’s called an anxiety attack.” His voice was soft, and you struggled to catch your breath so you could stay on the line. “I need you to try something for me, Y/N. It will help you to calm down. All you need to do is count along with me, and breathe as I tell you.”_ _

__“Okay,” you wheezed. Brian began to count up and down, slowly._ _

__“Breathe in…two…three…four…and out…three…two…one.” You followed his instructions, and after several rounds of this had happened, your heart stopped fluttering, and you found that you could breathe again._ _

__“Now, can I give John the phone again?” Brian asked gently. “Yes, thank you,” you sighed, wiping sweat from your forehead. “Thank you, Brian.” He hummed in response, and handed the phone back to John._ _

__“All right, darling?” he asked, concern colouring his voice._ _

__“Just needed a moment…to collect myself,” you replied. “Would you sing me a song, love, just one? I feel…” you hesitated, trying to think of the right words. “I feel very isolated right now, and I just want to feel as if you’re here with me.”_ _

__“Of course.” John began to sing, softly and sometimes off-key, a song he had written shortly before you were married – You’re My Best Friend. Although he always claimed to be a terrible singer, you felt that he had just the right kind of voice to sing Henry to sleep, or to comfort you when you felt down._ _

__“John?” you asked, once he had finished the last line._ _

__“Yes, dear?”_ _

__“Don’t come home, okay? Just tough it out for the last 2 weeks. Henry and I can go stay with my sister, I’ll call her right now.” John thought about this for a minute, and finally agreed._ _

__“Y/N, these two weeks will fly by, I’m sure of it,” he promised you. “And I’ll be back for a whole month. If things aren’t going well when the tour starts up again, then I’ll take more time off, and the boys can move on without me.” You started to protest, but he shushed you gently._ _

__“You are my wife, and Henry is my son,” John stated firmly. “My family is more important to me than anything else will ever be; more than Queen, more than money or prestige, more than anything. You two are my whole world, and I’m going to protect you and care for you in a way that makes you sure that what I say is true.”_ _

__John talked with you for a few more minutes, but you told him to get back to things when you started to hear the rustling of his restless band mates in the background. As always, he ended the conversation with “I love you,” and you knew that he meant it._ _

__* * *_ _

__As John had said, the last two weeks of the first leg of the tour went by quickly. You took Henry and stayed with your sister for a few days, and were invited by John’s mother to stay with her for nearly a week. Henry was doted upon by his aunt and grandmother, and you were able to sleep a little better than you had been._ _

__On a cold, blustery evening, you tucked your son into his bassinet after feeding him and singing him a lullaby. You slipped into your pyjamas and under the blankets on your bed, falling asleep quickly._ _

__In the night, John unlocked the front door of the house, quietly dropping his bags on the rug. He tugged his shoes off and crept up the stairs to your bedroom. John knelt down beside Henry’s bassinet, and he kissed his son’s soft forehead, breathing in the caramel scent that clings to newborns in the first few months of their lives._ _

__“Papa’s home,” he whispered, dragging a calloused finger along Henry’s bright pink cheek. “Sleep well, little fella.” After slipping out of his travel clothes and into a pair of tartan sleep trousers, he clambered into the bed beside you and wrapped an arm around your waist. You woke up, but only enough to kiss John and cuddle up against him._ _

__“Goodnight, John,” you mumbled, turning your face back towards your pillow._ _

__“Goodnight, love,” he whispered, kissing your neck. “Sweet dreams.”_ _

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, I hope you enjoyed this story. It may be a while before I update again because I have some ideas for other stories I want to work on. If you have recommendations or requests for where this story will go next, please leave them in the comments!


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